A Different Cloth
by msgenevieve447
Summary: He'd never known Graham, but he's seen his jacket hanging on the coat rack at the station. She's spoken to him of the other man only once, listing him as a casualty of this ridiculous war she's been waging against too many unseen enemies. He knew Neal very well, though, and now he knows August. She can't deny there's a pattern there, if someone wanted to see one. (post-416)


_I do know you're partial to men in leather jackets._

Afterwards, once the barb of her parents' lies has stopped stinging long enough for her to think clearly, his words come back to her.

He'd never known Graham, but he's seen his jacket hanging on the coat rack at the station, seen the pictures of him in Henry's book. He'd known Neal very well, of course, and today he'd met August in all his leather jacket-clad glory.

She stares unseeingly at the page on the bench in front of her, thinking of Killian's resigned nod when she'd said _yes_, she cares for August, of the uncertainty that had flickered in his eyes despite his teasing words. He'd been expecting the worst, she'd realised. Not of her, but of himself. That he wasn't enough for her. That she might need something else. _Someone_ else.

She'd quickly reassured him, of course she had, because he _is_ enough, he has been for a long time, long before she was prepared to admit it. Then her parents had come home from the library and told her that they needed to speak to her, and her world and her heart had cracked in two.

(Maybe _she's_ the one who's not enough.)

The anger had boiled up inside her, spilling over and catching everyone in its path. When he'd reached out, trying to soothe her as he always does, she'd jerked away, afraid his touch might cool her anger.

She'd wanted to feel that fury. Needed it to burn through the shroud of grief and regret around her heart, help her see everyone in this damned town for who they really are. Then, of course, she'd run, falling into the old habit as easily as breathing.

By the time he comes to find her at the docks, her eyes feel gritty, red-rimmed from staring at the loose page of Henry's book for what feels like hours.

She knew he would be the one to find her.

(He always is.)

He tells her that August is awake, that her _friend _is fine (the word falls softly from his lips, a silent apology in his eyes) and that her parents are with him.

She wants so much to feel his arms around her, but the mention of her parents has her spine stiffening. She hesitates, swaying on the spot, until he reaches out and gently catches her hand in his. His fingertips slide against her skin, rough and sure, his palm warm against hers, and she sways towards him like a pendulum, her eyes blurring hotly with tears.

When his arms come around her, the solid heat of him warming her through her clothes, she feels as though she can breathe for the first time in hours. He smells of new leather and Granny's lemon soap (she has the vague thought that he must have sneaked a cake or two to stash on his ship) and she wants nothing more than to let him hold her until her heart stops hurting.

"Why did my parents send you?"

(It's a ridiculous question, of course. They haven't exactly been discreet about living in each other's pockets these last six weeks.)

His hand rubs a soothing circle on her back as he turns his head to press a kiss to her hair. "They didn't think you'd listen to _them_."

She thinks of the guilt and shame written all over her parents' faces, and her eyes blur again. "They were right."

She buries her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him. Her nose nudges the exact spot into which she'd sunk her teeth only two nights ago, almost bringing him to his knees. Tonight isn't about _that_, though, only the sanctuary of his arms around her, the steady rise of fall of his chest against hers. She swallows hard, knowing there's something she needs to say. "I'm sorry about before."

Her answer rumbles deep in his chest, and she feels the echo of it against her heart. "No apology needed, love."

She pulls back, wanting to see his face, wanting to makes sure he _knows_ this isn't about him. "I wasn't angry with _you_."

"I know." The corners of his mouth lift in a wry smile, but there's a sadness in his eyes that matches the ache in her heart. He lifts his hand to smooth back her hair, his touch unhurried. "Would you like to visit your friend?"

Gratitude tightens her throat. "Yes."

He keeps his arm around her as they walk to her car, as if he can't bear to let her walk alone. To be honest, she's hanging onto him just as tightly, her steps keeping time with his steady stride. When they reach the Bug, he presses another kiss to her temple, then opens the car door for her. "Would you mind very much if I met you at the fairies' dwelling in an hour or so?"

She blinks, because the thought of him not coming back with her hadn't even occurred to her. "You're not coming?" She frowns, because there's only one thing she can think of that would make him want to keep his distance. "This isn't about August still, is it?"

"Not at all." Suddenly looking more than a little embarrassed, he gestures towards the achingly familiar shape of the Jolly Roger, once again moored in Storybrooke Harbour. "I, uh, thought I might do a quick spot of inventory, see if Blackbeard had the chance to damage my lovely ship before Elsa worked her magic."

She looks at his face as he gazes at the Jolly Roger, and her heart clenches at the longing in his eyes. God, there are too many things happening, she can barely keep track. His freaking ship is back and they've barely had time to talk about it. He's obviously barely had time to even step aboard the Jolly Roger, and that just makes her angry all over again, because it shouldn't be_this_ hard to snatch moments of happiness.

She knows one thing, though. The Jolly Roger is back, but he's still here. He could go _anywhere_ in the world, but he's still here.

(Don't you know, Emma? It's you.)

She's enough for him, too.

"Take all the time you need." He's giving her time alone with her parents and August, she realises, and the thought has her gripping the lapels of his jacket, tugging him towards her, needing him to _know_. "Before I go, I just want to make something clear."

His eyes search hers as his body sways closer, willingly obeying her summons. "I'm all ears."

She refuses to be distracted by the mention of his ears, which she's thought more than once wouldn't be out of place on a refugee from Middle Earth. "Leather jackets are nice and everything, but there's something else that matters a lot more as far as I'm concerned."

"And what's that, love?"

Holding his gaze, she presses her palm over his heart, feeling it quicken at her touch. "This," she tells him, and his eyes glow with something that looks a lot like delight.

He kisses her then (or she kisses him, she's not sure, all she knows is that it's warm and gentle and makes her toes curl in her boots), his hand slipping beneath her coat to stroke her back, a low murmur of appreciation humming in his throat. When it's over, he brushes his nose against hers, his breath warm against her cheek. "Your parents love you, Emma, remember that."

A cool swoop of _something _darts through the pit of her stomach and she closes her eyes, her hands flexing on the lapels of his jacket. "I know."

He hesitates, the word _love _seeming to hang heavy in the space between them, then he kisses her forehead. "I'll join you soon."

"Stay out of trouble," she teases, feeling stupidly close to tears once again, and he flashes her a grin.

"_Pirate_, remember?"

One day, she thinks as she drives away from the docks, the warmth of his kiss still on her lips, they'll have time for more than just snatched moments.

Until then, this will be enough.

_They _are enough, and that's all that matters


End file.
